


Two Princes

by likethenight



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Falling In Love, Fluff, Getting Together, Ithilien, M/M, Rare Characters, Rare Pairings, Treat Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:20:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27136525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likethenight/pseuds/likethenight
Summary: After meeting Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth in the street in Minas Tirith, Legolas has not quite summoned up the courage to find out if Imrahil is as smitten with him as he is with Imrahil. It takes a talk with his father, and quite a lot of string-pulling from his friends, before he finally steels himself to talk to Imrahil alone.
Relationships: Imrahil/Legolas Greenleaf
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9
Collections: Innumerable Stars 2020





	Two Princes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [smaragdbird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smaragdbird/gifts).



> Dear recipient, I absolutely adore this pairing, and it really made my day to see your prompt. I couldn't help myself, I had to write something for it as a 'treat' - I hope you like it!

“Adar,” I venture, on the second day of my visit to the Greenwood, after the end of the War of the Ring, “I have been thinking of establishing a colony in Ithilien.” Well, I might as well just come out and say it.

My father raises an eyebrow over the top of his goblet of wine. “Ithilien? Before the gates of Mordor? Why on Arda would you want to live _there_?”

This is the delicate part. It is bad enough that Gimli has long divined my intentions, still worse that Aragorn and Arwen know, and worse than that, that Éowyn and Faramir have also worked it out, which means that Éomer also knows. I am not particularly relishing the idea of confessing everything to my father.

“It is a beautiful place,” I say instead. “Now that the Shadow has gone and the land is beginning to heal, I feel as though I am drawn to help it recover.” I take a deep breath. “Just as you are, with the Greenwood.”

“And I suppose it has nothing to do with its proximity to Minas Tirith,” says my father. 

“That is a benefit, it’s true,” I shrug casually, for my friendship with Aragorn and Arwen will serve very nicely as a cover for my true intention, “but not the reason. Éowyn and Faramir are planning to set up home there, too. Since Gondor needs no Steward now, Aragorn has made them Prince and Princess of Ithilien.”

My father waves a hand dismissively; he cares not for the political machinations of Men.

“Ithilien is very close to the Sea,” he says after a few moments, and when I look at him properly I think I see a flicker of concern in his eyes. We have not always been very good at talking to each other, but we have been trying a little harder in recent years.

“It is,” I acknowledge, “but not so close as all that. And although I do feel the Sea-longing now, since I heard the gulls at Pelargir, I have made a promise to Aragorn and Arwen and I will not break it.”

My father nods, once, and takes a sip of his wine. I know he is worried about me. I know that he himself cannot countenance the thought of living so close to Mordor, not after the battle that took the life of my grandfather so long ago. I also know that he is well aware that I cannot return to live here in the Greenwood after all I have seen, all I have done.

“Tell me a little more about your adventures,” he says after a while. I have already given him a brief account of what happened after I rode to Imladris to convey the news of Gollum's escape, my father, of course, being not at all inclined to take the news there himself. But there is far more to tell, of course, and I begin to weave the stories for him onto the framework I have already constructed.

I speak of the Misty Mountains, of Gandalf and the Balrog, of the haven we found in Lothlórien - my father sniffs at that but makes no comment - of the breaking of the Fellowship and our pursuit of the Uruk-Hai who had kidnapped Merry and Pippin. I make a detour into the bravery of my Hobbit friends, and my father quirks an eyebrow but says nothing; I know he has not forgotten the Halfling who freed his prisoners and tried to bargain for their lives to prevent him going to war against them. On I go, through Fangorn Forest, the plains of Rohan, the battle of Helm’s Deep, the Army of the Dead, the gulls at Pelargir, on to the Pelennor Field and the great battle before the gates of Minas Tirith. And then - I cannot help myself - I tell my father of the brief encounter Gimli and I had with Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, how fine and fair he was, how I think that if the world is to be left in the hands of Men such as he, and Aragorn and Faramir, of course, then perhaps all will be well.

I hope I have conveyed only admiration for the leaders of Gondor at the dawn of the Age of Men, but my father quirks an eyebrow again and my heart sinks. Perhaps it is something I cannot hide, for my friends divined it easily enough, and I should perhaps have known better than to try to dissemble to my father, who knows me best of all.

“And this fair and noble Prince,” he says, “he lives by the Sea, does he not?”

I do my best to pull myself together. “He does. Dol Amroth lies upon the coast of Gondor, perhaps a day’s ride from Minas Tirith.”

“And from Ithilien, if my memory serves me well,” says my father, and my heart sinks, just a little. 

“A little further from Ithilien. But close enough that Aragorn, Imrahil and Faramir will easily be able to co-ordinate Gondor’s recovery in the years to come.”

A small smile tugs at the corner of my father’s mouth. “And convenient enough for you,” he says. 

“I do not know what you are implying, Adar,” I tell him, hoping to mask the sudden nervousness I am feeling. Truly, it is ridiculous to feel this way, for there is (as of yet, my heart makes me acknowledge) no reason for it; there has been nothing between me and Imrahil except polite conversation on the few occasions we have met. But I want there to be something, I suppose I can admit that, if only to myself. I do not know how to go about it, although my friends have been full of helpful suggestions, none of which I have acknowledged, for I have not admitted to any of them the contents of my heart, not even to Gimli who has become my closest and dearest friend of all. I am mostly convinced that none of their ideas would work, and I want most of all not to jeopardise the friendship I think is beginning between the two of us.

My father only says, “I think you do, ion-nín,” and takes another sip of his wine, that smile still threatening at the corner of his mouth.

I do not know why I am so afraid of admitting to my father that I have fallen hopelessly, irretrievably in love with the Prince of Dol Amroth. He knows something of love’s inexorable nature, after all. But something is stopping up my tongue, keeping the confession from tumbling out, and I find I cannot tell him. Not now, at least, not while I do not know if there could ever be a hope of my feelings being reciprocated.

I know that Imrahil is widowed, from a conversation I had with Faramir, who is his nephew. His wife died long ago, but he has never seemed inclined to take another partner, Faramir says. I do not know if he would consider a partner who is not female, who is not even human. I do not even know if he finds me pleasant company. I have not had the courage to ask, although somehow I keep finding myself seated next to him at dinner in Minas Tirith, or at meetings held to discuss the grand reconstruction of Gondor now that the Shadow has gone, I keep finding my presence required during the negotiations between Imrahil and Éomer for the hand of Imrahil’s daughter Lothíriel. None of my friends will admit it to my face, but I have the unsettling sensation of strings being pulled in the background, of my fate being shaped and determined by those who love me best.

“Very well,” says my father eventually, when the silence has stretched between us long enough to be awkward. “I give you my permission to establish a colony in Ithilien, upon the condition that I, not Elessar, am your liege lord. And upon the condition that you do something about the state of your heart, ion-nín. Our time here is limited now, and that of those noble men of Gondor is even more so.”

I cannot help it, my eyebrows go up in shock, is my father giving me his approval, to pursue a Man in hopes that he might love me? I know he knows something about having limited time with a loved one, both by accident and by the very injustice of nature, but I had never expected that knowledge to make him more lenient in his dealings with me.

My father laughs softly. “It is written all over your face, ion-nín. If you can stand to be by the Sea and not sail, I think you should go to Dol Amroth and speak to your Prince.”

“He is not my Prince,” I protest, “and that is what everyone keeps telling me.” And then I clap my hand over my mouth, my eyes widening as I realise what I have said.

Another laugh, genuine and full, escapes my father at that. “Then your friends are wiser than I have given them credit for. How long have they been attempting to make you see sense?”

I cover my face with my hands. “Since the morning after the battle of the Pelennor Field,” I groan. “Since the moment I met him. They are all conspiring against me.”

“Then perhaps they understand that after events such as those you have all experienced, one must take the opportunities for happiness that one is given,” says my father, the amusement still warming his voice. “Be glad that you are alive, against all odds and if I have understood you correctly, thanks only to the bravery of a couple of Halflings. Others are taking those chances, as I gather from your stories, so why not you?”

“Faramir and Éowyn are different,” I protest from behind my hands; I cannot quite look at him. 

“Why?” asks my father, and he is using the tone of voice that used to drive me to distraction when I was younger, so superior and so certain that he is right.

“They met in the House of Healing when they had both been gravely injured, they found they have many things in common, they found that they love each other.”

“And why is that so different?” my father wants to know.

I drop my hands from my face, letting out a soft growl of frustration; much as I know this is my father’s goal, to provoke me until I spill out every last part of my secret, I cannot help myself. He has always known me so very well.

“They know how they feel for each other!”

“And how did they manage that?” Now that I am looking at him I can see that my father’s eyes are sparkling with amusement, and I growl in frustration again.

“Because they talked to each other about it. But I - this - I cannot. We are too different. We have nothing in common.”

“You are both Princes,” my father points out, and I roll my eyes.

“But that is where it begins and ends. I am not female, I am not of the race of Men, I am not -“

My father rolls his eyes in exasperation. “You are an accomplished warrior, a skilled diplomat, you are fairer to look upon by far than any female of the race of Men that this Prince of yours can ever have encountered. All you are lacking, it seems to me, is the courage to ask him how he feels.”

I open my mouth to protest, but I realise that he is right. I have faced down trolls, goblins, orcs, Uruk-Hai, the Army of the Dead, even oliphaunts, but I cannot gather the courage to enter into a simple conversation with the Prince of Dol Amroth in order to find out what he thinks of me. I am being more than ridiculous.

And so it is that when I return to Minas Tirith and find myself seated next to Imrahil at dinner, with all of my friends giving me expectant looks, from Aragorn and Arwen at the head of the table, to Faramir and Éowyn at Aragorn’s right hand and Éomer and Gimli at Arwen’s left, I resolve that I must speak with him. Not at the dinner table, not surrounded by people, most of whom are watching us with barely concealed amusement; no, I ask him if he will take a walk with me upon the battlements, after the meal is over, and much to my surprise, he agrees.

When we are outdoors, a fresh breeze blowing and the Moon lighting the sky, I find I am lost for words, however, and for a long moment I lean upon the stonework and stare out across the plain, over towards Ithilien and the land that used to be called Mordor.

“It is passing fair on a night like this, is it not?” says Imrahil softly, and something about the tone of his voice unlocks my tongue.

“Even on a rainy day in winter I would find this country beautiful,” I murmur. “I have asked my father for permission to establish a colony in Ithilien.”

“Aragorn told me that you were planning such a thing,” says Imrahil. “What did your father say?”

“He has given me his approval, on condition that I look to him, not Aragorn, as my liege lord, but I confess I expected nothing else of him.” I cannot help a smile at the memory; and I do not mention my father’s second condition.

“That is good news indeed,” says Imrahil. “You will be glad to be near your friends, I should imagine. But did I not hear that you are now afflicted with the Sea-longing? Will Ithilien be too close to the shore for you to find peace beneath the trees?” 

I am sure I am not imagining the concern in his voice, and when I turn to look at him the depth of feeling in his eyes almost takes my breath away. I am still afraid to ask him - but I think I may be beginning to have an idea of his possible answer.

“I confess I do not know,” I tell him, “and I will not until I have tried. But I have made a promise to Aragorn and to Arwen, that I will stay until they are gone from this world, and I intend to keep it.”

“And might you perhaps one day wish to visit Dol Amroth, if being by the Sea will not cause you pain?” His words are tentative, careful, and they light a spark of joy deep inside my heart.

“I would be honoured,” I murmur. “Faramir has told me how beautiful it is - and from my own experience I have found that its people are passing fair.”

“None are there so fair as you,” says Imrahil, very quietly, and he raises one hand to trace a finger down the side of my face, his touch as light as a feather yet it sends a shiver running all through me. I close my eyes for a moment, and when I open them I see that he is looking at me with a mixture of wonder and apprehension in his gaze. _He feels as I do, I am sure of it._ My heart is singing.

“Nor have I seen anyone in all my long life as fair as you,” I murmur, and a smile begins to make its way across my face. “I was afraid to ask you - but I think now that perhaps I do not need to ask after all.”

“I did not dare to hope,” he says, “but from that first meeting down there in the street, you have stolen my heart clean away.”

I cannot quite help the soft laugh that escapes me. “So all of our friends’ efforts were unnecessary. Seating us together, steering our conversations so that I would always end up talking about you -“

“Ah,” says Imrahil, “they’ve been doing it to you, too.” He chuckles. “Not entirely unnecessary, I do not think, for if they had not been quite so persistent, would we be standing out here now, together and yet entirely alone?”

“Perhaps not,” I acknowledge. “I did not think you would be interested in me, for we have so little in common and I am not - I am not of your people.”

“I thought you would have no reason to look twice at me,” says Imrahil, shaking his head. “I am a mortal Man and for all I knew you had some beautiful Elven beloved waiting at home for you in the Greenwood. It was Arwen who told me that you did not, and I cannot tell you how happy that small piece of information made me.”

“But you - you had a wife, and I am not - I am not female. I cannot be that to you.” I cannot look away from him; if he rejects me now it will break my heart but I must be sure he understands me. 

But he smiles, and shakes his head again. “I had a wife, yes, and I loved her very much, but she is long gone. And I know you are not female, and it matters not to me. You are the most beautiful person I have ever laid eyes upon. Besides, I have been a soldier all my life. I know the ways of men.”

I blink, surprised, is he trying to tell me - ?

Imrahil flashes me a smile so bright it could almost eclipse the Moon. “Enough talking,” he says. “Let me show you, instead.” And he steps forward to gather me into his arms, pulling me into a kiss at once fierce and tender, a shock like summer lightning shivering through me as I open for him and his tongue finds mine, as I flatten one hand against his back and slide the other into his hair, holding him close and tight against me. 

It is a long time before we go back into the hall, both of us perhaps a little more dishevelled than when we left, but it only takes a moment for Éowyn to notice us, to whisper to Arwen, their faces lighting up with mischief and joy as they make sure the news travels very fast indeed to the rest of our friends. It is Éomer who sends up a cheer that is soon echoed by the others, and Gimli whose triumphant shout of, “About time too, laddie!” rises above the noise.

Just before we are engulfed by them all, I turn to Imrahil, amusement dancing in my eyes even as a blush makes its way up my face. 

“We are never going to hear the end of this,” I tell him, and he grins and kisses me. 

“As long as you are by my side, I cannot find it in me to care,” he says, and I cannot help smiling. I have found my courage at last, and the reward is far greater than I could imagine. For that I would withstand much more than the gentle teasing of my dearest friends.


End file.
